


Mission: Successful

by isisisatis



Category: Babylon 5, Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Humor, Laundry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 05:31:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8237810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isisisatis/pseuds/isisisatis
Summary: A deadly serious mission has to be undergone.





	

Mission: Successful  
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°  
By Isisisatis

 

Yech!!!!! That smelt beyond ripe. If it was a peach, it would have gone from fermenting to rotten and it would be crawling.

Suspiciously, he eyed the dark piece of offending odor which was dangling from his fingertips. Maybe it was indeed crawling? Or something was crawling in it?

Nope.

Just safe.

Casually he threw the piece over his shoulder, where it joined its equally unfortunate brethren.

Whistling, Marcus continued the search, shaking his towel-clad ass in tune to the melody.

He fished another piece of black cloth from a quickly diminishing pile and scrutinized it.

Nuhu.

Big, crusted stain of... eggwhite? No, can’t be. It had already been six weeks since he had gifted Susan with 'The breakfast'. No way had he been going for six weeks without doing laundry! 

Sniffing delicately on the spot, he realized it was from a different sort of protein and, blushing even in the solitude of his quarters, he flung the dirty shirt on the 'ready to burn pile'.

OK, that had been only three weeks ago and it had been Neroon's fault and most certainly not Susan's! Ooooohhh yes....

He closed his eyes in rememberance and if he hadn’t just jerked off under the shower, his cock would have risen to the occassion. It would never miss an incentive of such... proportions.

His mood brightenend even more - if that was possible - and he continued his hunt for something clean enough to wear.

He pulled at another corner of fabric.

And pulled.

Uhoh.

He grinned. It seemed as if Neroon was short one robe.  He lifted the cloth to his face and deeply inhaled the scent. Neroon, sweaty Neroon. Hmmmm, dreamily his depleted cock managed a lazy twitch this time.

However did that end up here?

He shrugged and turned back to the...

Nonexistent pile of clothing that was supposed to be right THERE!!!

Bloody hell!

In desperation he shook the last pice of blanket-sized fabric and glanced repeatedly through the door.

The pile of doom had reached galactic proportions. And unfortunately, his cupboard gave the impression of a buffet after a hord of Centauri had had it’s way with it. Namely empty. Not even one single clean sock was to be found, especially as he had already started to wear the stray socks together a week ago.

Thrice-Shadow-infested bad luck! There went his last resort for something remotely acceptable to wear today.   

NOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHO!

Laundry Day.

Dreaded.

Feared.

Avoided at all costs.

Well, he still had the option to buy new clothes.

Only...

That would only exponentiate his phobia tenfold.

Shopping-For-Clothes Day.

Shudder.

Weeellllll. Time to attack the problem logically.

He fetched his duffel bag and his backpack and a sheet and whished he had a vacuum pump to fit everything inside the the various containers. After some panting and sweating he rubbed his hands in satisfaction... and then stared at his bare feet.

Uh. Another a problem. He still was only waring his towel-sarong.

With cautious reluctance he approached the chest of drawers, already knowing what would await him, and yet hoping... hoping the clothes faery had fetched the abomnations of torture devices and replaced them with decent garb.

'Yeah, and you are still a virgin,' he thought with a snort.

Defeated he opened the bottom drawer and withdrew something of indetermined grey color - it might once have been white or black - and something resembling liquid green.

The green actually wasn’t a bad thing per se, it had been a special gift from Neroon: a sleeping robe of the most wonderful material. Thin and flowing and soft as silk and yet as warming as the thickes flanell. 

But... it was a sleeping robe. Unmistakable. And it was too long. Well, not actually, as he could comfortably wrap his feet inside it if he was cold. But out of bed it was so long that he either had to walk around like a lady gathering her skirts high or keep tripping on it every other step.

But the grey! The grey somehow had just turned up, he didn’t remember buying it, he didn’t remember having washed it and yet one day it had just sat there in his cupboard. Unsuspiciously. Gleeful. And because it was in his cupboard and he was in a hurry to leave his quarters, he just put it on.

And soon regretted it dearly. Nobody, absolutely nobody should have to wear underpants like this! They didn’t stay put. They rode up his crack and he had to pull them down all the time as they rode up his crack. And when they rode up they were restricting parts that didn’t need to be restricted by anything other than a mouth or arse.

They definitely belonged in the category of 'should never have been manufactured' and 'to be eliminated on sight'.

But since it wasn't an option to go commando under the silky robe - the friction! (ohhhmmmhh) - he put on the greys.

And then slipped into the green.

And put on his cloak on top. Hopefully this way it would be less visible and therefore less embarrassing.

Finally shouldering his luggage, he determinedly strode out of his quarters and managed to catch an elevator, excusing himself effusively to the other passengers while he cramed himself and his burden inside.

Arriving at the Zocalo, he reached the laundromat, laundrymat, laundramat, or laundermat (there appeared to be no official spelling of the word, especially since aliens joined in the confusion) without serious incidents other than almost falling down as he tripped on his robe rounding the first corner and running over a tiny... something or other.

He dropped his bags to the floor and surveyed the situation.

Two occupants. One Drazi, one... Vorlon!?

What would a Vorlon be doing here?

Shaking his head, he shrugged it off; since the Vorlon wouldn’t pose a serious threat/competition.

Marcus at once occupied three of the four free washing machines, separating the laundry into black, black and blackest - yes, having to wear pink socks and shirts and briefs for weeks had taught him a lesson and now he held everything in easy-care black.

It would be even easier, if it weren't for the greying effect.

He went to fetch some detergent and stood pondering before the assortment.

“Washing one's hands of the conflict between the powerful and the powerless means to side with the powerful, not to be neutral,” (1) suddenly the Vorlon chimed while gliding past Marcus, almost shocking him out of his wits.

Huh?!

Whatever. “Yes, thank you. And have a nice day, fellow!”

White Star White: even eliminates shadows from your white laundry.

Prism-a-gent: restores the brightness of your coloured garb.

Hm, he had tried this one the last time. The once-black-now-grey socks were still grey.

Smithereens: keeps your leather smooth and pliable.

Fluff: the best to keep your feathers and pelt soft, shiny and smooth.

Soft-Pure: only for silk, to make the experience even more special.

Marcus chuckled. Even more special? He considered wearing silk already distracting enough! He didn’t need a more special experience.

Celestial Black: makes your laundry so black it absorbs not only light but also matter. 

Well, if that didn’t work!

He put three cups of Celestial Black into the three washing machines and settled down on one of the cheap, alternating black and orange plastic chairs. He choose an orange one, since the black on either side wouldn't clash too much with his green robe.

Damn, again he had forgotten to bring something to read. Another lesson in patience. Because that always worked so great for him.

Sullenly he stared at the dark maelstrom of the tumbler.

Hm, maybe a meditation on laundry was in order?

For example: why did he always put up doing his laundry until not even one of his underpants was left? Not that he was the only one to do so, knowing Garibaldi and having lived together with males of various species, he knew it had to be something distinctly male and definitely species-unrelated.  
  
'Why do we dread doing our laundry?

'An experienced and efficient modern person can get several loads in and out of a laundromat in slightly over an hour (he had stopped that), 40 minutes of which is spent doing nothing. What is there to fear? Other people seeing your indelibly soiled underclothes as you quickly pull them from the machines? I wonder if there have been any official psychological or anthropological studies that indicate an underlying, universal, cross-cultural Laundry Dread. Do the Narn or the Lumati have a word for it? Is it a modern or an ancient phenomenon? Why are there never any laundromats with libraries, bars and carpets like everybody says they have in far away places like Orion VII or Oregon. Why are all laundromats the same and why are they all so dreary? Surely the owners of a small town laundromat on Centauri Prime has never seen all the other small-town versions on Proxima III or Mars, yet they are always the same. Is there a magazine where they get fashion ideas for Formica counters and cheap panelled walls? Couldn't somebody come up with something different? What the hell did people do before there were washing machines? Can you imagine the Laundry Dread that a pioneer mother went through with 9 children and only a creek and a washboard to work with? Whoever invented the washing machine should be knighted or sainted or both.

'On the other hand, there probably wasn't the enigma of vanishing socks before the invention of washing machines. Where did the socks go? Some say that it was the dryers fault, that dryers are doorways to another dimension. It has to be true because at one point I counted 21 stray socks in my drawers. That's more than I have total pairs of socks.' (2)  
  
Striped socks! The pinnacle of human development! Like Swedish meatballs. And space travel. Of which the former one, according to G'Kar, was a prerequisite for the last one.'  
  
OK, he was bored. He admitted it.  
  
And surrendered to the inevitable.  
  
He nodded off until the triple buzzing of his machines ungently invaded his dreams and he woke with a start.  
  
Blearily he glanced around, noting that the Drazi had changed into two Centauri. Unhurriedly he carried his laundry from the washing machine to the dryers (and prayed he wouldn't lose more socks).  
  
Just another half hour � which he would spend 'meditating' on Neroon (just the thought had him already smiling dreamily) � and then he was out of here.  
  
Yah, Neroon�  
  
The time flew by much faster and too soon first one buzzer, then two, then three made themselves annoyingly known.  
  
Glancing at the clock he noted that he could just make it in time.  
  
Hurriedly, Marcus gathered the warm, clean and fresh-smelling clothes up, ran the entire distance to his quarters, quickly pulled out the required items of dress, let the robe slide from his body, picked the grey pants from between his butt-crack and dressed as quickly as for an emergency launch.  
  
A quick look in the mirror showed that he looked decent and after carding through his hair with the five-toothed comb he even looked presentable.  
  
'Not a single second too soon!' Marcus thought when his doorbell *finally* chimed.  
  
"Come in!" bouncing excitedly with anticipation, he waited in the middle of his room for his guest.  
  
"Marcus!"  
  
"Neroon!"  
  
They rushed into each others arms, embracing tightly, kissing hungrily and hands travelling everywhere eagerly.  
  
"You look decidedly well. But you also wear an unfortunate amount of clothes which prevents me from enjoying the experience unrestricted in its entirety.  
  
"That can be remedied."  
  
And even quicker than the clothes had been put on, they were discarded again.  
  
  
THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Don't own them, never will. Don't even know if I ever want to. Those two boys are quite high maintenance. Not to speak of trouble.  
> A/N: Written for Jason Carter's birthday, though not an answer to the birthday challenge.  
> A/N2: A heartfelt thank you goes to the beta readers: MC and Shira. *smooch*


End file.
